Blind Man's Bluff
by Scribblesinink
Summary: Grieving for yet another lost friend, Dean and Sam are in for a surprise. AU-tag for Death Takes A Holiday.


**Author notes**: My first thought when Dean brought Pamela into the room was, "Yay!" But as soon as she opened her mouth, my second thought was, "Who the hell is this bitter, cynical woman? 'Cause it sure as hell ain't Pamela Barnes!" Mr. Carver, if you make me wanna write weirdo fix-it fic, you're doing it wrong...! Thanks to tanaquispn for helping me hammer out the finer points of the story, and, as always, for stellar beta services.

**Blind Man's Bluff**

**By Scribblesinink**

"What did she say to you?"

Sam didn't answer; the psychic's final words still ricocheted around his brain. Why was everyone so damned adamant he shouldn't use his powers? Dean; Uriel; now Pamela. And they didn't get it: he could _fight_ the demon blood; he didn't _have_ to go evil; he _could_ use his power for good. It was the whole reason he'd taken up practicing again in the first place: to be ready to use the power Azazel had given him against Lilith. How could that be wrong?

"Sam?" Dean's voice broke through Sam's thoughts. "What did she say?"

Sam opened his mouth, and snapped it shut again. He couldn't tell Dean. Not now, not after everything that had gone down the last few weeks. And sure as hell not while he was still working things through in his own mind.

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Besides, we should get out of here." He got to his feet and nodded at the unconscious man in the corner he'd exorcised the demon from. "Before he wakes up."

"Dude...." The protest came out as a weary sigh, and Dean didn't push further. Instead, he started collecting his things and stuffing them into his bag.

They finished packing within minutes, experienced at getting ready to leave at a moment's notice. Sam worked around Pamela's body, not looking at it. When he gave the room a final once-over to see if they'd missed anything, he saw that her corpse had sagged a little on the bed, the blood on her fingers already drying. His eyes stung; it wasn't fair what happened to her. She hadn't deserved to go blind; she hadn't deserved to die; she certainly didn't deserve to be abandoned in a chilly motel room somewhere in Wyoming. "What about her?"

Dean pondered the body for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. "We'll take her to Bobby. Give her a decent burial." He shrugged one shoulder, offering Sam a rueful look. "Well, a decent salt-'n-burn, at least."

Sam nodded. They'd made a point of not leaving any dead hunters about for demons to possess. Bad enough those people had died; no need to risk insult being added to injury. The only time he'd made an exception to the rule was for Dean, despite Bobby's pleading to the contrary. Glancing sideways at his brother, Sam was glad once again he'd put his foot down.

"I'll get the car." Dean swept the car keys off the dresser. "You wrap her up."

Before Sam had a chance to reply, Dean was outside, shutting the door behind him and leaving Sam alone with the psychic's corpse and the unconscious John Doe. Sam heaved a sigh, squared his shoulders, and set to work, straightening Pamela's body and rolling it into the bedspread.

He worked quickly, trying not to blanch. It wasn't so much touching a dead body—obviously, that was pretty much par for the course—but most of the corpses he normally dealt with had been dead a long time. Pamela hadn't even gone cold.

And it was different if you had known and liked the person.

When he finished, he took the chair and sat down to wait for Dean. "You're wrong, you know," he told Pamela's remains. "It can't be all bad if I use it for good. Intent has to count for something."

"Ahem." Dean cleared his throat from the doorway, making Sam jump guiltily. "Talking to yourself now, Sammy? You know that's the first sign of madness, right?"

Sam grimaced. "Bite me. Did you get the car ready?"

"Yep. Cleaned out the trunk, and it's right out front." Dean walked over to the bed and lifted the wrapped bundle in his arms. "Grab my bags, will ya?"

Sam snatched up their luggage and followed his brother down the narrow, creaking stairwell, praying none of the other guests would step out. Fortunately, despite the motel being open for business all night, four o'clock in the morning in rural Wyoming still meant no one out and about; they reached the car without anyone seeing them.

Dean gently laid the body in the trunk, smoothing the coverlet where it had become loose, before he slammed the lid. "Bobby's a few hours out. Let's scoot."

o0o

They drove through the rest of the night in awkward silence, staying just below the speed limit. Dean was very aware of the body in the back; the last thing they needed was getting pulled over by some overeager county cop.

The sky in the east was just growing light by the time they took the turning into the road that led to the scrap yard. "Hope Bobby's up already." Dean started at the sound of his own voice; it was the first thing either of them had said since crossing the state line into South Dakota.

Sam mumbled something in reply that Dean couldn't quite make out. He'd been staring out into the darkness for most of the drive, despite Dean telling him to get some sleep.

They were passing through the gates into Bobby's yard when Dean's phone rang. Keeping the Impala on course with one hand, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the phone. "Yeah?"

"Dean, it's Bobby. Where are you?"

Dean sat up straighter. "Bobby? You sure it's you?"

"What?" Bobby huffed. "Of course I'm sure, you idjit! Who else would I be?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Probably wasn't the best time to explain the stunt Castiel had pulled on Sam to set them on the hunt. "Never mind."

"What's this crock I hear?" Bobby sounded even more cantankerous than usual. "You boys plannin' on ghostwalkin'?"

Dean's brows shot up in surprise. How did Bobby know about that? "Ah, that's old news. Already been there, done that." He pulled to a stop in front of Bobby's house and killed the engine. "But you better come outside." He climbed from the car, stretching stiff limbs.

A curtain in one of the downstairs windows twitched, and Dean caught a glimpse of a hatless Bobby peering out. A moment later the line went dead, the front door opened and Bobby marched down the steps. "What d'you mean, you've _done_ that?"

Dean rounded the Impala, making for the trunk. "Bobby, we're sorry, but—."

"Whoa.... Dean...!"

Dean's head shot up. As soon as he saw what made Sam, unfolding himself from the shotgun seat, cry out in warning, he reached for the gun stuffed into his belt at his back. It made for very uncomfortable driving, but he'd be damned if he'd ever get caught again without a weapon after that time in Nebraska with those psychotic twins.

In a couple of seconds, he had the gun cocked and ready, and trained on the apparition that had followed Bobby out of the doorway.

"What the—?" Bobby was staring at them slack-jawed. "Have you gone off your rocker completely?" He glanced over his shoulder. "You do remember Pamela, don't you?"

At the sound of her name, the woman raised her head and smiled. "Sam, Dean. I wish I could say it's good to see you, but—." She laughed self-deprecatingly, flapping a hand at her dark-tinted glasses. "It's good to hear you, though." She took a hesitant step forward, feeling with a booted toe for the top step.

"Pam, stay back." Bobby shuffled sideways a few steps, deliberately blocking Dean's field of fire. "Dean, put the damned gun down."

Dean hesitated. He felt he was missing something, but he'd be damned if he knew what. He exchanged a glance with Sam, who gave a little shrug. Dean realized his brother was as puzzled about the situation as he was.

"Bobby." Sam spoke in a low whisper, the words intended for Bobby's ears only. "That's not Pamela. Pamela's dead."

Bobby frowned and shot another glance back at Pamela, who was no longer smiling, sensing something wasn't right. "What're you saying?"

"We saw her die." Dean gestured towards the car with his gun. "We got her body in the trunk."

"She helped us reach the astral plane." Sam suddenly looked even more tired than he had done when he'd gotten out of the car. "And then a demon stabbed her before she could get us back. When the Reapers started up again, she died."

Bobby's eyes flicked from Sam to Dean and back again, brows almost up to his receding hairline. "Astral plane? Reapers? I thought—."

"It's a long story." Dean shrugged.

"Hey, I'm blind, not deaf or stupid." Pamela cautiously made her way down from the porch. "I'm very obviously not dead. And I'd never would do something as crazy as helping you two onto the astral plane. Piercing the veil like that would be a very, very dumb thing to do. Dangerously so."

Dean glanced back from Pamela to Bobby, who nodded. "She's right. She also just played me that voice message you left her. That's why I called you two dumbasses in the first place. Damn, I've seen you boys come up with some half-baked ideas before, but this would take the cake."

Across the car, Sam shot Dean another look, a question on his face.

Dean nodded in response. "I did call her," he confirmed, "while on the way to pick her up."

"And a good thing I wasn't home."

Sam turned his attention back to Pamela. "If that wasn't you...," he sounded hesitantly hopeful, and Dean knew exactly how he felt, "then who...?"

Good question, Dean thought. That was what he'd like to—_oh crap_.

No.... They wouldn't dare... would they?

If Castiel could pretend to Bobby on the phone.... Dean strode the last few feet around the rear end of the Impala and, holding the gun in one hand, flung open the lid of the trunk with the other. "I'll be damned."

The trunk was empty: no dead psychic, no half-stiff corpse, just a rumpled bedspread pushed into a pile in one corner.

Sam had followed Dean to the back of the car. "I'll be damned," he echoed as he peered into the trunk.

Dean pulled out the discarded bedspread and shook it out. A couple of feathers fluttered out and drifted slowly down to the muddy ground. He stared at them, taking some satisfaction from knowing that getting out of a locked trunk wasn't so easy even for an angel.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Sam had picked up one of the feathers. It was deep black and glossy, and that seemed weirdest of all—Dean'd never truly seen any, but he'd have bet good money on angel wings being white.

"Yeah, I am: Uriel." That goddamned manipulative dick with wings.

o0o

"So," Bobby said ten minutes later, putting four steaming mugs of coffee on the kitchen table, "you think this angel put the whammy on ya?"

"Yeah." Sam rested his elbows on the table and wrapped his hands around his cup. "Maybe a glamor or something."

Pamela snickered. "An angel pretending to be me. And you boys fell for it. Now, that I would've liked to see. And don't give me that look, Dean!"

Dean grinned,unable to hide the smirk, even from her. He was pissed as hell, but at the same time, the case was solved, the seal unbroken—and nobody'd died. All in all, they hadn't done too badly.

He wasn't surprised at all to discover that when Pamela's hands disappeared underneath the table, one came to rest on his upper thigh, fingers warm through his jeans, nor did he mind when Sam's eyes narrowed abruptly, telling him she'd done the same to his brother.

This, after all, was Pamela Barnes.

**Disclaimer**: this story is based on the Warner Bros. Television/Wonderland Sound and Vision/Eric Kripke/Robert Singer series _Supernatural_. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without the author's consent.


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